


It Suits Me

by captaincharming



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincharming/pseuds/captaincharming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a joke. Finn had never expected him to actually like the damn thing, let alone wear it like the badge of honor it certainly wasn’t. It was just a joke; a stupid, silly anniversary thing, but the second he opened it, Poe’s eyes lit up brighter than any star Finn had seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Suits Me

**Author's Note:**

> i saw this shirt (goo.gl/QbvFwI) while shopping for a poe shirt, posted it on twitter, and had a conversation with my friends that went something like "poe should wear one and when someone asks whose wife he is, he'll point to finn, who's wearing a 'best husband in the galaxy' shirt". so this is that au come to life. i know it's not captain charming, but stormpilot is the new love of my life, and i had to get at least one fic out there for them. i hope you like it!

It was supposed to be a _joke_. Finn had never expected him to actually like the damn thing, let alone wear it like the badge of honor it certainly wasn’t. It was just a joke, a stupid, silly anniversary thing, but the second he opened it, Poe’s eyes lit up brighter than any star Finn had seen.

“What in blue blazes…” Poe trails off, sounding amused as he pulls the shirt from the plain paper Finn had chosen for wrapping and spreads it out on the bed for a better look. He runs a hand across the block letters spelling out ‘Best Wife in the Galaxy’, glancing up at Finn with a bemused expression.

“It’s just a joke,” Finn rushes to explain, hoping he hasn’t crossed some boundary. He’s still acclimating to a life that encourages jokes and teasing, and now he worries his dumb idea isn’t quite as funny as he originally thought. He’d hoped Poe would recognize it as a gag, a reference to an off-hand comment Poe had made about the state of their rooms a few weeks prior but knows he still doesn’t have the hang of everything yet.

Finn had taken to the less regimented lifestyle of the Resistance army like a gooberfish to water, and this new laidback attitude had translated into a veritable riot of clothes and tools and various other detritus strewn about his, no _their_ , quarters on the D’Qar base. After he’d been released from the medbay with a clean bill of health and a tender scar up the length of his back, Finn had been informed by Poe, in no uncertain terms, that he’d find all of his things in Poe’s rooms. Finn wasn’t even aware he had things, but apparently Poe had taken care of that while he was unconscious, acquiring things for Finn and promptly storing them in his own quarters. Finn’s protests had been token and short lived, as there was no place he’d rather be, and now it had been nearly a year since he’d moved into Poe’s room. And Poe’s life, really. It had taken a while for Finn to feel truly comfortable in either, feelings of comfort and belonging not exactly high on the First Order’s list of priorities for their troopers, but now he struggles to remember a time before he and Poe had so thoroughly merged their lives.

If asked, he’s sure Poe would share the sentiment, although it might be a little easier for him to recall the pristine state of his quarters before Finn moved in. Finn had caught the faces he’d made upon returning home from some mission or another more than once, the slight crinkling of his nose revealing his displeasure. Poe bore it valiantly, stepping over and around the clutter to greet Finn with a kiss, always indulging him in a little quality time together before his neat freak tendencies kicked in and sent him bustling around the room in an attempt to quell the chaos. The most recent offense had been the worst by far, Finn having brought home an entire X-wing engine to disassemble and explore. He was supposed to be acquiring a rudimentary knowledge of all classes of starship used by the Resistance, in case he ever found himself needing to repair one in a pinch, but he was admittedly only interested in the X-wing, for its connection to Poe. Finn was determined to be a help rather than a hinderance whenever Poe let him tag along with him to the hangar for repairs. What Finn hadn’t banked on, however, was the sheer magnitude of parts contained within just one of an X-wing’s four engines. They were spread across the apartment from door to wall and everywhere in between, and Finn hadn’t had a chance to try to contain the mess to manageable piles before Poe walked in.

He’d stopped just inside the doorway, telltale crunch indicating Finn had missed a part when he’d kicked them away from the door just moments before. Poe was in his flight suit, fortunately heavy boots protecting him from injury, but he still sighed in annoyance. “Finn,” he’d began, voice dripping with reprimand, but Finn beat him to it.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry! I fell asleep working on all this last night, and then I had to be in combat training at some Force-forsaken hour, and I had lunch with the guys and didn’t realize how late it had gotten, so I didn’t get back here until right before you landed and then-” Poe cuts him off with a quick kiss, having picked his way nimbly across the room during Finn’s outburst. Finn’s hands, which had previously been flailing around to punctuate his frenzied speech, come to rest on the shoulders of Poe’s orange uniform, fingers digging into the rough material. It’s nothing like the supple leather of the jacket he’d given Finn, but Finn doesn’t mind. Poe’s flight suit is tough and capable, much like Poe himself. Finn likes the way it feels under his hands. Again, much like Poe himself.

“As if you’d have picked it up if you’d gotten back here in time,” Poe teased gently, still pressed close enough that Finn could feel the exhalations when he spoke. “You’d have waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore and did it for you.” Poe gave a short laugh, surprising Finn with a light slap to the ass. “I swear, sometimes I feel more like your wife than the dashing rapscallion we both know me to be.”

Finn huffed indignantly as Poe pulled away, unzipping his suit to the waist and shrugging out of the sleeves. Ignoring the way the pooled material accentuated the slimness of Poe’s waist as he cleared a path to the bedroom, Finn crossed his arms over his chest in an exaggerated pout. “Well, first of all, Rey would tell me to tell you that’s an offensive typification, and secondly, I don’t expect you to pick up after me! I’ll do it. Eventually.”

Poe’s laugh from the other room warmed Finn’s heart, nearly as much as his words. “Well, if I offended you, then you’re taking it the wrong way. I don’t mind being your wife, Min Larel.” _My love_. Finn felt his face grow hot at the Corellian term of endearment, but he reminded himself that he was used to such sap from Poe. The pilot had traveled all across the galaxy during his time with the Resistance and often trotted out the many languages and dialects he’d learned along the way, both to impress and embarrass Finn. This time, though, it wasn’t the sly use of an ancient language that sent the blood rushing to Finn’s cheeks, but Poe’s calm assertion that he’d consider the title of wife a moniker of pride rather than a derogatory term.  

Which is what led them to this moment; Poe opening a gift from Finn, a shirt professing his wifely superiority. Finn hadn’t been able to get the appellation out of his head since Poe had said it, and he’d barely been able to keep from using it himself, multiple times. He didn’t use a lot of nicknames, unlike Poe, who, aside from giving Finn his actual _name_ , ran the gamut from ‘buddy’ to ‘sweetheart’ to ‘mesh’la’ ( _beautiful_ in Mando’a), so he wasn’t sure how he felt about introducing such an extreme one to his vocabulary. But he hadn’t been able to resist teasing Poe about it, just a little, hence the shirt he’d had made for the one-year anniversary of his official move-in date with Poe. What he hadn’t counted on was Poe actually liking what Finn picked out.

“This is so perfect, Finn, I can’t believe you got me this. It suits me! Only now, my gift looks like Bantha fodder compared to this.” The excitement in Poe’s voice divulges his sincerity, and Finn shakes his head incredulously. He isn’t overly familiar with the concept of anniversaries or the gifts appropriate to mark the occasion, but even he knows that Poe’s gift of a framed photograph of the two of them was definitely more acceptable.

“You weren’t supposed to like it,” he argues helplessly, eyes tracking the length of Poe’s torso when he yanks his current shirt over his head, tossing it aside absently. Finn wants to admonish him, remind him that that same behavior from Finn himself would merit a reprimand about the proper place for clothes, but he’s thoroughly distracted by the sight of Poe pulling his new shirt on. It stretches obscenely across his shoulders and biceps, molds perfectly to his stomach and narrow hips. The shirt is a size too small, a forced error on Finn’s part. He likes Poe in tight clothes, what can he say? Poe likes things that Finn likes, so Finn doesn’t really see a downside to his subterfuge. Poe grins up at Finn, hands on his hips, the bold letters pulled tight across his chest proudly declaring him a wife. This whole thing was getting less and less funny by the minute.

“Why not?” Poe asks, seeming genuinely perplexed. “I told you, I don’t mind being your wife. And now I’ve got the shirt to prove it.” He winks at Finn in a conspiratorial manner, smirk etching a deep dimple in his cheek. Finn can never think straight when Poe fixes him with that look, and the combination of the smirk and the shirt leaves him even more brainbolted than usual. He reaches out unconsciously to fit his hands around Poe’s waist, the shirt material soft beneath his fingers. Poe runs his hands up Finn’s arms reverently, sleeves riding higher on his upper arms in the process. He squeezes to draw Finn’s eyes back to his face, smile gentler now that they’re close. “Come on, buddy, let’s get some dinner.” Poe steps back a pace, reaching across the bed for the infamous jacket, heavily patched from Finn’s encounter with Kylo Ren but still functional. Poe drapes it over Finn’s shoulders, pressing a fleeting kiss to his neck as he goes. He holds out a hand that Finn takes without question, always having been keen on a bit of handholding. When Poe starts toward the door, Finn returns to his senses, using his grip on Poe’s fingers to yank him back.

“We can’t go anywhere with you in that shirt,” he sputters when Poe looks to him for an explanation. “Get changed and we’ll go.”

Poe glances down at himself, then back up to Finn, eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “Why should I?” he asks, with the hint of defiance Finn has come to learn means nothing positive. “Don’t I look good?” Finn groans weakly, knowing he knows the answer to that.

“Of course you do, Force help me, you do. But you can’t let other people see you in that! It’s, like,” Finn searches from the appropriate term, knows he’s gotta be careful how he handles this. If Poe suspects, even for a second, that Finn is trying to tell him what to do, he’ll probably never take the shirt off again. “It’s just for us, yeah? A _private_ thing,” he stresses, hoping to appeal to Poe’s penchant for intimate, coupley stuff like that. Finn is hopeless when it comes to romance, but Poe is a hopeless romantic.

It seems to do the trick, at least for a moment, as Poe bites his lip, eyes intent on Finn’s. His free hand rubs across his chest distractedly for a second, but then he quirks another smile, and Finn knows he’s lost. “It’s not like you got me lingerie, hotshot. It’s a shirt. I’m wearing it out.” He makes to leave again, tugging Finn along in his wake and reaching the portal before Finn can come up with another excuse, too busy with _lingerie? really? he’s being...serious?_ to stage a protest. The jacket falls from his shoulders when Poe gives a particularly jarring jerk, leaving Finn exposed to the cool air of the hallway, and inspiration strikes.

“Wait, wait,” he protests again, causing Poe to shoot him a sore look. “You can’t wear that out, okay? I have a reason!” he insists, cutting Poe off before he even opens his mouth. “It’s like, no one will get that it’s a joke between us, right? And people know that we’re together, like they know the status of our relationship or whatever, meaning they know that we’re not actually married,” Finn continues, gaining enthusiasm for his nonsense explanation the longer he goes. Poe, for his part, looks unimpressed still.

“And? So what?” he prompts, impatient, but Finn ignores him.

“So, if they see you walking around, calling yourself someone’s wife, but they know you’re not married to me, what kind of impression is that going to leave? You want people thinking you’re some kind of...of...a harpy, or something?”

Poe snorts at his choice of word, or perhaps at the speech in general, but he steps forward, nudging Finn back across the threshold. Finn is counting it as a win, a testament to his superior logic. Maybe he should offer his services to General Organa as some kind of, diplomatic negotiator. Or something. Maker knows the Resistance could use as much support as it can get.

“A harpy, huh?” Poe asks, interrupting Finn’s self-congratulatory musings. “You don’t think they’d just assume it was about you? The guy I’m with? The only guy I’ve been with for over a year? You think the automatic reaction to seeing me in this shirt would be to conclude that, not only am I running around on you, I’m flaunting it, signboard style, across my chest?” His soft smile and tight grip on Finn’s hand takes the harshness out of his teasing, because Poe is never harsh with him, but Finn gets defensive all the same.

"You never know!” he maintains stubbornly, even as Poe presses up in his space, walking them back toward the bedroom, teeth working a mark against his neck. “There’s no one going around claiming to be the husband to your wife. People could think anything.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Poe mumbles against the neck of Finn’s own shirt, hands already pushing the hem up his stomach, “is that you need a matching shirt before I can let people see me in mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Finn pants out, not sure if he’s agreeing to Poe’s conclusion or the path of his hands up Finn’s chest, but Poe doesn’t press him for clarification.

He does, however, leave a conspicuously wrapped package on Finn’s pillow when he leaves for a mission a couple weeks later. Finn opens it warily, unsurprised when a shirt spills out onto the sheets, ‘Best Husband in the Galaxy’ scrawled on the front in block letters.

\--x--

Poe is aware of the stares and murmurs that follow him across the mess hall that morning. He ignores them, loading his tray with a selection of grey, brown, and white gruel-looking delicacies and carrying it over to his usual table. He refuses to complain about the grub so long as he doesn’t have to eat field rations or nutrient paste. Anything is gourmet compared to that sithspit.

He takes a seat between Pava and Nunb, both of whom stop eating to gawk at him. Poe ignores them too, tucking into his breakfast with gusto, face carefully schooled into an indifferent expression. It takes a minute for either of them to say anything, though Poe can sense the silent conversation taking place over his head. He hides a smile in his glass of blue milk, awaiting the inevitable.

“Uh, Commander?” Nunb hedges, apparently having lost the brief but furious argument with Pava over who had to ask. Poe tips his head questioningly, unwilling to give an inch. He should have done this weeks ago.

“We were just wondering, uh, what, well, what it is that you’re-”

“We want to know what the hell you’re wearing,” Jessika interrupts, patience never having been her strong suit, Nien’s stumbling driving her to the breaking point. She points helpfully to his chest, and Poe feigns an exaggerated doubletake at his attire.

“What, this?” he asks innocently, plucking at the shirt and looking back at them in faux surprise. “It’s just a shirt, Jess.”

The two pilots exchange a look, one that clearly wonders how they got stuck with such a _shavit_ for a commander, and has Poe biting his lip against an honest-to-Maker giggle. He goes back to his food while they work out how to phrase their next question, eating quickly to avoid the dreaded “cold cafeteria food” nightmare.

“Sir,” Nunb tries again, poor bastard defenseless against Pava’s frankly terrifying icy stare. “Why does it say ‘Best Wife in the Galaxy’ on it?”

“I think that would be obvious, Nien,” Poe chides, condescending to a fault.

“It’s not,” Jessika replies flatly, and Poe frowns for the first time since he left his rooms. She’s not nearly intimidated enough by him, if she thinks she can get away with that tone. He may be teasing the shit out of her right now, but he’s still her CO. He’s going to have to get more tough on his squadron.

‘Well,” Poe replies slowly, like he’s speaking to a rather dense child. Jessika’s glare brings his smile back full-force. “It says that because someone _obviously_ considers me the best wife in the galaxy.”

“But you’re not a wife!” Nien blurts before Jessika can form a reply, his already bulbous eyes growing impossibly wide. Poe props an elbow on the table and fits his chin to his hand, batting his lashes coquettishly.

“Aren’t I?” he asks sweetly, and Nien’s blush floods his face and neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his own shirt. Jessika remains unsurprisingly unaffected.

“No, you’re not,” she insists, rolling her eyes at Nien before knocking Poe’s elbow off the table. “You’re just screwing around, like always.”

Poe chuckles, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head, opening the words on his chest up to perusal from the entire mess. “I promise you, I’m not. Someone bought me this shirt as a gift, and I was so delighted by the compliment that I’ve hardly taken it off since.”

“Who? Whose wife are you claiming to be?” Jessika inquires immediately, already glancing around for the culprit. She clearly suspects a prank, like she’s waiting for Poe to say Chewbacca or something equally ridiculous, and Poe follows her gaze, worried he may not have stalled long enough for his punchline to arrive.

Fortunately, he spots movement by the door before she does. He stretches one arm out in a casual point, waits until she gets what he’s pointing at before saying, “His.”

All eyes in the room have found Poe by this point, his shirt’s garish lettering impossible to miss, so every head turns to follow his indication. Finn’s pinkened cheeks are visible even from across the hall, and he fixes Poe with a fierce glare, but Poe sees the softening around his mouth when Poe winks at him, and he offers a grudging wave to the enamored crowd.

“‘ _Best Husband in the Galaxy,_ ’” Pava reads, sounding disgusted, but Poe doesn’t turn his head to check her expression. He has eyes only for Finn as he navigates his way past tables and curious onlookers, coming to stand between Poe’s legs, mouth fixed in a petulant pout.

“That he is,” Poe agrees, reaching up to tug on the hem of Finn’s complementary shirt, laughing when Finn slaps his hand away. “That he is.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you guys want to keep in touch, you can find me [on tumblr!](http://backwardstraveller.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Surprise Attack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679376) by [gambitspryde (beaches_at_treasure_island)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaches_at_treasure_island/pseuds/gambitspryde)




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